


ashes to glitter, rust to dust

by cosmicwoosan



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Breaking and Entering, Colors, Homelessness, Implied Sexual Content, Making Out, Minor Violence, Multi, Partners in Crime, Poverty, Robbery, Sad Ending, Smoking, Vandalism, give it a read if u can handle sad!!, it's kinda hard to explain so, non-traditional major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicwoosan/pseuds/cosmicwoosan
Summary: “H-hey, guys.”Seonghwa is completely still, eyes wide in panic as they turn to him.“Holy shit,” Wooyoung breathes, eyes matching Seonghwa’s.A glistening trail of white sparkles is starting to lift from his left shoulder.“Oh, fuck,” Yunho says. “It’s… it’s starting.” He glances down at his hands. Orange.Blue. Pink. Purple. Red. Green. Gold.One by one, the colors rise.
Relationships: Choi Jongho/Choi San/Jeong Yunho/Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang/Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa/Song Mingi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	ashes to glitter, rust to dust

**Author's Note:**

> soooo I was listening to 'anna sun' by walk the moon and this fic happened.
> 
> I'll try to explain this as best as I can. I'm sure there will be a lot of questions as to why the method of mcd happens in this fic, and honestly, I can't tell you. There is no answer. It just happens. For visualization, I recommend watching the music video for kesha's 'take it off.'
> 
> I guess you could say this fic is less about the logistics of why and more about the "let's just all enjoy some delicious angst!"
> 
> So without further ado, here's some delicious angst! :)

When Jongho wakes up, the sun is already low in the sky, casting a sepia-like film over his vision. Gold light filters in through the flimsy curtains of his shabby apartment that isn’t much of an apartment; it’s some abandoned building that homeless people camp out in. But he calls it home nonetheless, because it’s where his bed is. His mattress. He goes to San’s place to shower and everything else, but this is where he sleeps. On the concrete floor, on a mattress with no sheets.

He’s surprised that the place still has curtains. Maybe it was an apartment complex at one point. There’s no power, and most of the windows are broken. There’s no running water. Good thing it’s summer; he may go to bed sweating sometimes, but at least he’s not freezing.

His beloved pickup is parked outside. That’s the one thing he spends money on. Gas. Hongjoong is good at repairing things, so he’s able to do all the fixing when needed, and he does it for free. As much as Jongho doesn’t like to show it, he really does love Hongjoong. Really.

San lives in a not-abandoned apartment complex just two blocks down. His place is also quite dingy, but at least it’s furnished and has running water and electricity. As much as Seonghwa spends time there trying to clean, it’s as if the unidentifiable stains have become intricately intertwined with whatever surfaces they mar. No amount of soap or bleach has been able to wash them away, but at least it keeps the place smelling like lemons and chemicals.

A little further down the street is where Yunho and Mingi live. It’s a tiny house, just one bedroom and one bathroom and everything in that house is shared between the two of them. The TV still needs an antenna to work, and there is rust on the piping, springing numerous leaks that Hongjoong always has to mend. They _would_ permanently fix them… if they had the money.

Hongjoong’s shop is across from their house. There, he fixes cars, broken appliances, handheld electronics. You name it, he can fix it. In all of their opinions, he charges way too much for his services, but he gets the job done so immaculately that it’s hard to say that with full chest. Not to mention he _lives_ at his shop, and his income is his living. He has no choice but to charge that much.

Seonghwa has a job at a grocery store in the opposite direction of Hongjoong’s shop. It’s a small market, selling the most basic necessities one would need to live, but when Jongho wanders the aisles, he finds that he doesn’t have… well, any of those things. San has most of those things. Sort of. San doesn’t have any fruits and vegetables, but he does have bread and peanut butter and instant ramen and water. Whatever, it’s food.

His place is an apartment that’s a step above San’s, but not by much. It’s a lot cleaner, since Seonghwa is a stickler for that sort of thing, but it’s still old, still so painfully ordinary, with tacky wallpaper and flooring that creaks when you walk on it. The circuit breaker trips a lot and he has to fix it himself because nobody else there wants to or knows how to fix it.

Wooyoung lives a floor below Seonghwa, in a room that’s pretty much identical. They’d moved in at the same time when they found out the landlord had two spaces available for the same (mostly) affordable price. That was before they knew each other. Had they known each other, perhaps they’d have moved in and roomed together, but it doesn’t matter much now.

Wooyoung has a job in the city, forty minutes away. His car is a 1999-something, a car name that nobody really cares about. It’s a faded cobalt blue and it sputters whenever he turns on the ignition. Every time Hongjoong takes it in for inspection, he says he’s surprised it’s still running. He taps the hood of the car and says, “This thing’s a trooper.”

And then there’s Yeosang. He sleeps on a mattress outside of Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s apartment building. Sometimes he’ll sleep in the back of Jongho’s pickup. If any of their food goes stale, Yeosang takes it happily. Wooyoung gets him water from the tap and lets him shower. Hongjoong gets him clothes from a thrift shop near the grocery store. Mingi gave him a blanket that was knitted together by his grandmother seven years ago, and he uses it every day, no matter the weather.

Out of all of them, Wooyoung is probably the most well-off, and sometimes they borrow money from him, and most of the time he’ll let them. That’s why he deliberately decides to live around here; he _could_ live closer to the city in a place that’s a lot nicer and cleaner, but he knows they need him. And in many ways, he needs them too. So he settles for his grungy apartment and lives humbly, spending his hard-earned money on gas and basic needs and his friends.

Jongho wants to repay them all.

After fixing his hair in the reflection of a broken shard of glass, he heads out and gets in his pickup, the engine revving menacingly as it roars to life. His first stop is San, as it’s the closest, and the man is already waiting outside, waving. He hops into the back, and Jongho feels the truck bounce as he does.

Yunho and Mingi are next. Jongho honks the horn as loudly as he can, and the pair appear mere seconds later, empty backpacks slung over their shoulders. Mingi joins San in the bed while Yunho climbs into the seat next to Jongho.

Hongjoong does a quick inspection before getting in the bed as well, his handy dandy toolkit nestled perfectly in his lap. It contains nuts and bolts and screws, hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, and other sharp things that could possibly be used as weapons.

Yeosang is outside Wooyoung’s place and is already making a beeline for the truck before it even stops moving. He’s all too enthusiastic about jumping into the bed along with San and Mingi and Hongjoong. Wooyoung joins him shortly after, carrying two large duffel bags.

Seonghwa is last. They pick him up near a lone newspaper dispenser three blocks away from the grocery store. He’s still wearing his emerald green apron, which he promptly strips himself of, and the sandy wind whisks it away as he climbs into the last remaining seat next to Yunho. He’s carrying two six-packs of beer and has four bottles of other alcohol variants in his backpack, sticking out of brown paper bags.

“Wait,” Yunho says. “Take that with us.”

He’s pointing at a very random, conveniently-placed shopping cart. Must be one from the grocery store, but what’s it doing all the way out here?

“What’s that doing here?” Jongho asks.

“Doesn’t matter. We’re taking it with us,” Yunho says. He nods in Mingi’s general direction.

San and Mingi hoist the shopping cart up into the bed of the pickup, leaving it in the center steadied by their legs. They know exactly what it’s going to be used for.

Jongho does a sharp three-point turn in the middle of the road, heading back in the direction of Hongjoong’s shop. There’s nobody walking the dusty sidewalks; the area has always been barren, as if they are the last ones remaining. Everyone else has moved on to bigger and better things.

But not them.

They may not have much. But they’re happy with what they do have. And they strive to be happier.

Jongho presses his foot down on the gas pedal, watching as the speedometer needle climbs to bigger and better numbers. The tank is full, for now, but he’s certain it won’t be for long. Not when they have places to go.

In the back, San has opened two bottles of beer. He chugs half of one and passes it to Mingi. Mingi doesn’t drink, so he passes it to Wooyoung. Wooyoung drinks the rest of it and tosses the bottle out the bed of the truck, watching it get smaller and smaller as dust swallows it.

Hongjoong drinks the entirety of the second bottle, as Yeosang has fallen asleep on his shoulder. There are too many sleepless nights for the poor man. They let him be warm, snuggled up against the man who provides him clothes. When the bottle is finished, Hongjoong stares at it before smashing the bottom half of it against the rim of the bed, leaving the curve of the bottle with sharp, dangerous edges.

“We might need it,” he says, shrugging, and the others nod. San even cheers.

“Everything looks so golden,” Wooyoung says. He checks his digital watch. “It’s not even five yet.”

“Not golden,” San murmurs. “Yellow. There’s a difference.” Wooyoung hums in agreement.

Like a yellow filter thrown over all of their eyes. From the dust clouds that swirl when the wind picks up, bits and grains digging into the white flesh. They’ve gotten used to the sting of the outside world, the blistering heat and bitter cold, with nothing much to shield them when the sky cries or flurries. A permanent layer of jaundice.

Wooyoung sees it now. It’s not golden, no matter how much he wishes it was. But for now, he can imagine it. He _has_ to.

They drive over a winding road perched atop a rugged cliff that overlooks the sea. There’s no guardrailing. One wrong turn, or one glance away, and the truck would tumble down merciless rocky terrain and into violent waters. Would there be fire? Would there be red and orange to accompany the yellow? Would there be black smoke amongst the carnage, as opposed to the black body of the truck that carried eight souls to their death?

Hongjoong imagines it. Imagines Jongho derailing off course. Imagines what it would feel like to have his skull crushed beneath metal and rock, red and white and orange and black and yellow. So many colors. He wonders if death, before the permanent blackness, is anything like that.

Wind combs through their hair with reckless abandon. A few bugs probably die against their faces, but they don’t feel it. The speedometer is reaching 120. Hongjoong leans over the bed’s railing, watching as the tires kick up dust and dirt that flies behind the vehicle at an incredible speed. The gray asphalt flickers before his eyes. Here he is, here they are, getting farther and farther away from the yellow that haunts their dreams.

San stands up with wobbly knees, leaning the front of his body up against the truck’s body, legs pressed against the windows that look outward. Yunho and Seonghwa watch him. He spreads his arms, his flannel fluttering vigorously behind him like wings of a pained hummingbird. It’s hard to keep his eyes open when the wind stabs him like this, but he manages to keep them pried open just enough to watch the world’s colors zip across his vision.

The blue of the sky, not Wooyoung’s car. The gray of asphalt, not Yeosang’s hands. White clouds that aren’t smoke, rocks that aren’t sand. Wind. Carefree, full-bodied wind. No storms, no twisters. Just him and the wind. The stabbing starts to feel more like kissing.

It starts to get hard to breathe, so he sits back down. Too much air, when he’s used to not enough. Wooyoung pats him on the back.

“It’s like we’re flying,” San says. “Aren’t we?”

“We are, if that’s what you want,” Wooyoung tells him, pressing a kiss to his temple that erupts in pink. “We can be or do anything, Sannie.”

San nods and leans into Wooyoung’s shoulder. His face is damp.

Nobody knows how long they drive for. The yellow filter doesn’t disappear but the sun does get lower in the sky. It sends sharp, blinding rays spilling over the horizon and they all have to shield their eyes to catch a glimpse of the ocean. The cliff peters out eventually, and the road gets wider, the yellow strokes in the middle fading.

Their first stop is an abandoned skate park. Yeosang would tell tales of his youth spent there, how many pairs of jeans he’d torn trying to learn a new trick, how many blunders he’d experienced just trying to please the masses, how many times he’s had to pick himself up and wipe the tears away because all he could hear was the trilling, taunting laughter of children. And he would run until his scraped up legs couldn’t anymore. And he would keep running even then. And that’s all he did. Run.

He truly ran until he couldn’t anymore, until he had no choice but to collapse onto a mattress without a roof above it, because he was so _tired_ and life was too cruel for him.

Hongjoong shakes him awake when they arrive. By the time Yeosang regains full consciousness, all of them are already out and San and Mingi are taking the shopping cart out. He’s still rubbing his eyes when he climbs out, taking Wooyoung’s outstretched hand that guides him towards the nearest slope.

To Wooyoung, it looks like a giant empty pool. There is graffiti painted over almost every inch of it and the other surrounding pits, neon colors spilling obscenities and graphic images of monsters and gore, artistic and unique yet disturbing. He wonders if there has ever been enough rain to fill these colorful trenches and what the drawings would look like under gallons of water.

None of them own any skateboards. So that’s what the shopping cart is for.

“Deepest slope first,” Seonghwa decides, already climbing into the basket. “Who’s pushing me?”

All of them volunteer, but it’s Yeosang who ends up pushing him first. He grabs onto the handle with both hands, gaining a running start before lifting his own feet off the ground and onto the bar by the rear wheels, screaming in time with Seonghwa as the cart zooms down the slope. Mingi is following on his side, rolling his body down the hill, laughing uncontrollably even as his body comes to a lazy halt.

The cart spins before Jongho and Yunho steady it. “Man, fuck this place,” Seonghwa exclaims, hopping out of the cart and kicking the metal rungs.

And all of them know, by ‘this place,’ he doesn’t mean the park.

And all of them take their turns in the makeshift shopping cart skateboard. It’s not a board, it’s not used for skating, but it has four wheels and can hold a person. They make do with what they have. They’ve always been doing that, and this is nothing different.

Hongjoong goes down alone. Yunho pushes him, but the free fall is all his. The cart spins on all four wheels as he leans against the basket, before they give out under his weight and he comes rolling out of the cart. The metal basket crashes onto its side, clattering against concrete. Several pairs of footsteps approach Hongjoong’s ears.

“Hey, you alright?” Seonghwa shakes his shoulders.

“Of course,” Hongjoong says, spitting to his side. Who cares if there’s blood?

“Wanna go again?” San asks him.

Hongjoong scoffs, pushing past the group and lifting the cart back onto its wheels.

They take another round of turns. Yunho retrieves a few more bottles of beer from the truck and opens them with his teeth. When Hongjoong takes his third turn, he has a full bottle in hand that he holds above his head as he goes down. The momentum sends the brownish liquid spilling out from the top, just a little bit.

“Ah, _fuck_!” Hongjoong shouts. “Fuck this! Fuck all of it!”

He tilts the bottle and the beer pours out in all sorts of directions—behind him, above him, in front of him, _on_ him. The cart crashes again as he hurls the bottle off to the side, and it rolls away as beer continues to spill out from it.

“Are you drunk already?” Seonghwa asks, helping him to his feet.

Hongjoong smashes his lips against Seonghwa’s, silencing him. The taste of beer is there, though it’s unclear who it belongs to.

“Do we bleed our favorite colors?” Hongjoong asks, an alcohol-filled whisper.

“You know I can’t answer that,” Seonghwa replies.

Hongjoong sighs through his nose, hands sliding around Seonghwa’s thin waist.

“Try to bleed my favorite color, and I’ll try to bleed yours.”

“Hongjoong—”

“Alright, lovebirds,” Yunho announces, sticking his massive hands between their heads. “We got work to do. Next stop is a gas station forty minutes away, and I think we’ll just barely make it before the tank runs empty. Let’s get a move on.”

Reluctantly, the pair follows the rest of them back to the truck, fingers brushing. The cart’s beer-soaked corpse remains toppled over, dead center in the middle of an empty sea of colors.

*

The sunset is underwhelming. When the sun is a half circle split by the horizon’s line, it is a mere pearly dot in the sky, its blanket a boring shade of periwinkle and nothing else. No pink clouds, no orange, nothing. They stare at it in utter disappointment, in complete silence.

“How much longer?” Yeosang asks, his voice shaking just like his hands. San offers him a roll of crackers, which he accepts.

“Just a few more minutes,” Jongho answers. The speedometer is considerably lower, gas tank near empty.

“Will we make it?” Yunho asks.

“We’ll push this fucking thing if we have to,” Jongho mutters through clenched teeth. With eight men, it should be a viable feat, but hopefully it won’t have to come to that.

Yunho chuckles. Sure, they need gas. But that’s not all they need. That’s not all they’re going there for.

The dreary periwinkle shade darkens even further, the sky reminiscent of Wooyoung’s car. The faint green glow of a washed-up convenience store flickers in the distance, and Jongho lets out a holler in celebration. When they pull up to the station and park, Jongho shuts off the engine and calls everyone forward.

“Who’s doing what?” he asks.

“Yunho and Mingi will take care of the guy behind the counter,” Hongjoong says. “Wooyoung and I will get the stuff and Seonghwa and San will take care of security. Yeosang is on lookout.”

Yeosang chuckles. “I think we won’t need to worry about anybody coming through here.”

Jongho nods. This is the kind of place that lost and weary travelers stop by. Like an oasis in the middle of a desert, it’s heaven to those running low on gas or supplies. Not a ragtag group of friends with nothing better to do.

In a way, Jongho feels guilty. But they _need_ this.

He’s the first one out of the car. “Wooyoung, what time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

“Perfect. Alright, guys, go!”

With several affirmative nods, six of them storm into the convenience store as Jongho opens the gas tank. Yeosang stands by his side, watching curiously.

As promised, Yunho and Mingi take care of the guy behind the counter, a short, stout man in his mid-thirties. It’s an easy feat for the two of them; they leap over the front counter and take him by surprise, shoving him against the wall of cigarettes as Hongjoong tosses a roll of duct tape in their direction. Mingi tears a piece off with his teeth and slaps it over the man’s mouth.

“Hey, San, where should I go for?” Yunho calls out.

“Inside of the knee!” is San’s hurried response.

Yunho looks at Mingi and nods, shoving the man forward and jamming the heavy heel of his foot into the bend of the man’s knee. Muffled by the duct tape, the man screams and falls forward, head knocking against the front counter.

“Sorry,” Yunho mumbles, catching the man as he slumps forward, his pained shrieks simmering into pathetic whimpers. “It has to be done.”

“It’ll be over quick,” Mingi assures. “Hey Hongjoong, rope please!”

Three thick bundles of rope are tossed over the counter and Mingi catches them with finesse. His days in the scouts will prove useful now, though his mother certainly wouldn’t be proud.

The man pleads wordlessly, helplessly, as Mingi binds his wrists and ankles, even using the rest of the rope to tie his arms to his torso. “Will he be able to escape these?” Yunho asks.

Mingi shrugs. “If he tries hard enough.”

Yunho chuckles to himself. “You guys good out there?”

“Yup!” Wooyoung answers, throwing snacks and other miscellaneous items into one of the duffle bags. “Hey Hongjoong! Help me push this thing over!”

Hongjoong cackles and bounds over, backpack full, and helps Wooyoung push an entire shelf of chips and snacks, knocking it down and sending bags and containers gliding across the oddly polished tiles. It lands with an unbelievable crash.

“More!” Wooyoung shouts, moving on to the next.

“Wait,” Hongjoong says. The shelf Wooyoung is about to push over contains neatly arranged bottles of alcohol. “Let me—”

“You promised you wouldn’t get wasted,” Wooyoung says with a pout.

“I’m not.” Hongjoong grins and plucks a tall glass bottle off the shelf. “But I didn’t promise I wouldn’t do this.”

“Do what?” Wooyoung questions.

Hongjoong starts to shake the bottle.

“Oh, you… you are _not_ ,” Wooyoung challenges, backing up.

“Oh, but I _am_ ,” Hongjoong taunts back, stalking forward, still shaking the bottle.

Wooyoung doesn’t understand how such a small Hongjoong has so much strength, enough strength to yank a perfectly nestled cork out of a bottle to send a bubbly stream of champagne right in Wooyoung’s face. “Oh, you _fucker_!” Wooyoung screeches, lunging forward into the sweet waterfall with his eyes screwed shut, seizing Hongjoong’s wrists. He laughs as Hongjoong drops the bottle and kisses him with all his might.

“You fucker,” Wooyoung says again as Hongjoong’s tongue grazes his face, lapping up the sweet, sweet champagne.

Hongjoong leaves him with another kiss and shoves more of those same bottles into a backpack.

When they finally get around to pushing over the second shelf, the harmonious shattering of glass rings throughout the store.

“Hey, are there any left?” Seonghwa asks. Wooyoung hands him a bottle of something. “Watch this.”

He’s snickering as he points the bottle at the security monitor in one of the corners of the store. “I used to throw knives,” he says.

“No you didn’t,” San says matter-of-factly.

“Must you ruin my fantasy?” Seonghwa sighs dejectedly before chucking the bottle at the monitor, breaking both the screen and the bottle upon impact.

“I must say, that’s a very unique way to dispose of evidence,” San says. “Let me try.”

He finds another stray bottle of mystery alcohol and throws it at a security camera right above the coolers. The bottle breaks, but the camera doesn’t. “Ah, shit,” he mutters.

“Toolkit’s got a hammer in it!” Hongjoong yells, and San is quick on his feet, pushing past the front doors and retrieving a hammer from the back of the truck.

The poor employee has tears in his eyes. “Hey,” Yunho says, petting the man’s neck. “It’s okay. We’ll call help for you, don’t worry.” Mingi raises a brow at him.

San hops up on Seonghwa’s shoulder and smashes the camera, bits of black glass showering his head. It almost looks like glitter.

“Is that everything?” he asks, ruffling his hair. Seonghwa pecks him on the cheek.

“Should we get rid of this?” Hongjoong grabs the phone and receiver on the front counter.

They all look at each other in uncertainty. Hongjoong sighs. “San, Seonghwa, I need you guys to check the parameters. Thoroughly. Smash every single camera you see. If you’re not sure, break it anyway. And check the backroom, if there is one. Got it?”

San and Seonghwa exchange a brief glance before turning on their heels. Hongjoong throws his arm around Wooyoung and looks at the man, quivering in the confines of the ropes.

“You’re scared,” he says. The man whines. “Yeah, I get it. So are we. Why do you think we’re doing this? You think we’d just rob this place for no reason? We’re young, we’re stupid, but we’re not cruel.”

“Hongjoong…” Yunho starts.

Hongjoong huffs, stepping behind the counter and stuffing a line of cigarette packs and eight lighters in his backpack. There’s the sound of something breaking outside. And then another. And another.

“You see… all of this shit—” Hongjoong motions at the store, or what’s left of it. “—all of this is replaceable. You can buy everything in this store again, rebuild what you need to. But you can’t replace lives. Once they’re gone, they’re _gone._ ”

Tears begin to fall from the man’s eyes just as San and Seonghwa reappear inside. “I think we got all the cameras outside,” Seonghwa reports, panting. “I’m gonna go check for more.” He grabs San’s arm and tugs him in the direction of some double doors toward the back of the store.

“We’ll be done soon,” Wooyoung says.

Surely enough, there’s the sound of two crashes beyond those double doors, and they swing back open, revealing a very sweaty duo. “Okay, I think that’s everything,” says San. He throws open one of the coolers and gathers several bottles of water in his arms. “See you guys back outside.”

Hongjoong nods. “You too, Wooyoung.” Wooyoung doesn’t argue, following San and Seonghwa out.

Then, Hongjoong picks up the phone and dials.

Static. And then, “What is your emergency?”

“There’s been a robbery,” Hongjoong says, stone-faced. “There’s been a robbery. I don’t know where the hell this is, but I’m sure you can trace this phone’s location. The clerk, he’s alive. Tied up and gagged, but he’s alive. He might be able to free himself by the time you guys get here. Whatever the case, just know that the person who robbed this place… you won’t find him. You’ll never catch him.”

“Hongjoong—” Yunho starts.

“You’ll never catch him,” Hongjoong says one last time before hanging up and throwing the entire contraption on the ground and crushing it beneath his feet. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He doesn’t wait for Yunho and Mingi to catch up.

*

Jongho decides to turn on some music. He has an array of CDs tucked away in the glove compartment and it’s Seonghwa’s mission to pick one that isn’t terrible.

The song that starts playing sounds like a sunrise. Like something is being revealed and brought to life. It’s happy, too happy, but maybe that’s what they need right now. Jongho has never heard this song in his life, and for a split second, he wonders just how the hell the CD got in his car in the first place.

Whatever the case, he decides to turn the volume knob all the way up to max, rolling down the windows and letting the humid air flood his senses as the song picks up.

“What is this song?” Yeosang asks.

“No idea,” Jongho answers honestly.

“I like it.” Yeosang nuzzles into Wooyoung’s shoulder.

“I like it too, Yeosangie,” Wooyoung says, pressing a kiss into his matted hair.

The song starts to sound like a day. From sunrise to sunset, it paints all the colors of the sky, all of its possibilities. One could jump in the rain or splash around in the sun to this song. There are the upbeats, the lulls, the good, and the bad, everything that comes with days and the life that consists of them. Jongho wishes the knob on his radio could go higher.

San is standing again. He has a lit cigarette in his mouth and his arms are spread wide, much like before. He inhales deeply, opens his mouth, and the stick of death loses to the wind.

When he breathes out, a cloud of purple smoke follows, but the night is too dark to see.

_We’re gonna rattle this ghost town_

*

Their final destination is a lonesome country house that belongs to Yeosang’s uncle. For how fancy it is, it sure is secluded, tucked away behind a gate and brick walls that are easily surmountable with the help of Jongho’s pickup and all of their hands. According to Yeosang, his uncle likes to spend massive amounts of money traveling the world in search of people to fill his loneliness with, only to come home to more emptiness, before leaving again. Yeosang says that he can’t relate in the slightest.

The door is locked, of course, two curvy handles to a mahogany door unwavering no matter how much they push down.

“Well,” Jongho says, cracking his knuckles.

He sturdies himself and drives his foot right in between the handles, where the two doors meet, and they split open. Yunho bursts out laughing. “Shoulda done that in the first place, you big oaf,” he says, throwing his arm around Jongho and rubbing his fist into his hair.

With the entryway destroyed, they make their way inside, into a grandiose foyer littered with shelves and trinkets and picture frames. A miniature chandelier dangles from the ceiling. Two lamps sit off to the sides of the front doors, and San switches both of them on.

“Never seen a place like this in my life,” Hongjoong says.

“I used to come here when I was little. Before, you know, everything went to shit,” Yeosang reminisces with a spiteful laugh.

Yunho sighs, throwing his arms around him and pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s fine. We’re gonna make up for it.”

“This looks very fun. What even is this?” Mingi asks, holding a glass ball of sorts. Yeosang makes a face.

“Dunno.”

Mingi shrugs, and promptly flings it at the wall. It shatters with an ear-piercing sound of twinkling. Like stars. The bits of broken glass look a lot like them, too.

“This place is full of breakable shit.” Wooyoung snickers, galloping further into the house with Seonghwa at his tail.

It truly is. Glass galore. Meaningless memorabilia and useless items are placed in such convenient places, and they’re so easy to pick up and _throw._ They’re things that none of them have ever had the pleasure or means of owning, so why the fuck would Yeosang’s uncle miss them? Useless. Every ornament, every wine glass, every vase, _useless._ It makes them furious just _looking_ at everything.

So they destroy.

They destroy the things that never belonged to them and never will. Yeosang finds a framed picture of his family hanging on the wall along the stairs, takes it down, and drops it from the second floor onto the first, reveling in the sound of a broken past breaking even more.

Mingi throws open every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen and pushes all the fine china onto the floor. They don’t break like glass does, but they still break, landing with sharp pangs, bells to Mingi’s ears. He lobs a miniature teacup at the glass door leading out to the pool area, and it leaves a tiny hole in its wake.

Wooyoung helps Jongho flip a sofa over in the living room. He uses a box cutter to rip open feather-stuffed pillows and dumps the downy material all over the floor, over _Jongho_ , who simply laughs and hits him with one, sending even more feathers flying.

Hongjoong is on the second floor, scouting out the bedrooms before deciding on one to empty. “Hey, Yunho! Help me with this!”

Yunho comes running, planting a kiss on Hongjoong’s forehead before helping him push the twin-sized bed out of one of the guest bedrooms, lifting it above the railing, and letting it drop to the second floor. It lands with a deafening thud, its wood frame splintering upon impact.

“That was my cousin’s bed,” Yeosang informs them with a chuckle.

They ignore him, because it doesn’t matter whose bed it is. But Yeosang helps with the next bed, the queen-sized monstrosity belonging to his uncle and whoever he decides to take home for the night. They dump it like they did with his cousin’s bed; it drops and it almost bounces off the first, landing pathetically on its flank.

Seonghwa finds himself in the master bathroom, mindlessly yanking out the drawers in the vanity until he comes across one of various beauty products.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” he mumbles to himself, uncapping the nearest tube of lipstick. It’s a vibrant cherry red, _perfect._

Wetting his lips, he leans into the mirror and traces the shape of his mouth before filling it in, pressing his lips together to perfect the color. He smiles to himself, to his reflection, and kisses himself, lips and tongue smushed against perfectly clean glass, leaving a bright red stain.

Below his lip imprint, he signs his name.

He pockets the tube of lipstick, his newest and last prized possession, before tearing down the shower curtains and chucking a bottle of shampoo at the mirror. It cracks.

San finds him, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Sexy,” San comments.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa says. “Now kiss me with that filthy mouth of yours.”

San tosses the cigarette in the open toilet. It fizzles out as their mouths collide in a hot, ashy kiss. San tastes disgusting, but Seonghwa loves it, loves _him._ And he doesn’t care in the slightest.

“Hey guys!” Yunho calls from downstairs. “There’s a radio!”

“Where’s that CD from the truck? We need to play that song!” Hongjoong shouts.

San pulls away, a long strand of saliva stretching between their lips. His mouth is now smudged with red. He leaves Seonghwa with a wink, and before he disappears from sight, Seonghwa sees him pull another cigarette from his pocket.

Seonghwa sighs, shaking his head, and reapplies his lipstick.

They reconvene downstairs and Jongho pops the disc into the radio.

The day begins again. The sun rises. They wake up and rub the tired from their eyes, though it’s never truly gone. They breathe in deeply, the first few breaths of conscious air. They open their eyes again and there’s light outside. Their heart picks up speed as they stand on their weary feet.

Hongjoong heads downstairs. There’s a motorcycle, an electronic tablet, and a car from the 1960’s that need repair. He can get it done, but he’s out of coffee. He would ask Wooyoung to pick some up, but he doesn’t have the time or a phone. So he works until his hands are sore and his eyes might fall out and his heartbeat is weak. He finishes them all. He passes out on the floor to his shop, only to be awakened by a pounding on the door, belonging to the owner of the motorcycle, a burly man with a dirty face and daggers for eyes.

Seonghwa gets in the shower for ten minutes. He does what he can to look presentable. He throws on his uniform; it’s wrinkled because he can’t afford an ironing board, but that’s okay because the green apron covers it. The green apron that is now floating somewhere in the wind. He takes a shuttle to work even though it’s an hour until his shift starts because that’s the only mode of transportation available to someone like him. He stands on his feet for ten hours and avoids eye contact with people in fear they’ll see what he hides beneath them.

Yunho wakes up before Mingi. He has to, because there’s someone waiting outside. The sun is barely up at this point. He shuffles under their bed and pulls out a bag. Mingi would kill him if he knew he did this, but he does it for _them._ He meets the person outside. The person has a dirty face and daggers for eyes, but he has enough money to cover them for the next few weeks. When Yunho returns, Mingi is awake. And yes, Mingi still loves him, still takes him in, still cries in his arms, still promises that he’ll _try_ to get a job but Yunho pets his hair and tells him it’s okay.

Yeosang dreads waking up, so he tries to fight it. But the sun pries his eyes open. And that’s what he is—a slave to the sun. A slave to the world and its days. He’s forced to wake up, and he leans back against the wall, legs crossed on his mattress. And he waits. And waits. His stomach rumbles violently and nothing does the job. Sometimes, Wooyoung leaves him morsels before he goes to work. Sometimes, Seonghwa will snag him some food from the grocery store if he can. Sometimes. Sometimes, Yeosang eats. Sometimes.

San gets up and eats because his stomach is killing him. A diet of bread and peanut butter doesn’t sustain him, but it’s the best he can do. He drinks water and smokes cigarettes that Wooyoung buys him. He’ll sometimes visit Seonghwa down at the market. Sometimes he’ll help Hongjoong out with repairs and if Hongjoong is in a good mood, he’ll share some of his earnings. Wooyoung lends him money the most because he’s good in bed. It makes San feel sort of dirty, but Wooyoung kisses him anyway and tells him to stop thinking.

Wooyoung doesn’t have time to dawdle on the pain in his eyes. He has to get to work. It’s an office job, mundane as hell, but it pays well enough to keep a roof over his head and his friends fed, sometimes. He drives forty minutes five days a week. He waits until the gas tank is near empty and makes thorough calculations as to how much gas he’ll need to pay for. If there is _one_ thing out of place, he takes the car to Hongjoong. He _needs_ this car. When he thinks about it, it truly is the one thing keeping him alive.

Jongho wakes up and waits. Waits for _something_ to happen. Waits for a rainstorm, a snowstorm, a tornado, a meteor shower. Waits for _anything_ , anything else but this. He walks to his truck and waits there. He’s hungry, so he walks all the way down to the market and manages to steal a few pieces of fruit. Seonghwa halfheartedly tells him not to do that anymore. He walks all the way back. He sits with Yeosang, who’s staring straight ahead of him, also waiting. And they talk about everything that went right and wrong and aren’t at all surprised when more of the latter surfaces.

And then, they all began to wait. And they continue to wait.

And wait.

And as they wait, Yunho begins to swing his hips. Mingi swings his head. Seonghwa bobs his head. Hongjoong shuffles on his feet. Yeosang sways his body. San shakes himself. Wooyoung shimmies his shoulders. Jongho jumps up and down.

And they dance. They wait, and they dance.

_This house is falling apart_

_We got no money but we got heart_

San grabs Wooyoung by the waist and reels him in, kissing him with smudged lips. They’ve shared plenty of kisses in the past, but none quite like this.

Upon seeing this, Seonghwa grabs Hongjoong’s head with both of his hands, smashing his painted lips against Hongjoong’s right cheek and leaving it stained, much like he’d done to the glass. Hongjoong writhes in Seonghwa’s hold, but ultimately doesn’t put up much of a fight.

They dance in pairs, in threes, in fours, until all of their bodies are pressed up against each other, bumping to the same song on repeat. Day after day, night after night. Verse after verse, chorus after chorus. The song repeats. And they dance.

They’re out of breath. Hongjoong breaks away from the circle and rips open one of the bags, throwing bottles of water and snack bags in their direction.

They’re ripped open and gobbled down in mere seconds.

And much like Hongjoong had done back at the convenience store, he retrieves a bottle of bubbling gold, shakes it, and releases a shower onto his beloved group of friends, soaking them in sickeningly sweet alcohol. He grabs one of them and kisses them hard, not caring who it is.

The song starts again.

“H-hey,” says a voice.

The sun rises.

“H-hey, guys.” It’s Seonghwa.

They all stop, but the song doesn’t.

Seonghwa is completely still, eyes wide in panic as they turn to him.

“Holy shit,” Wooyoung breathes, eyes matching Seonghwa’s.

A glistening trail of white sparkles is starting to lift from his left shoulder.

“Oh, fuck,” Yunho says. “It’s… it’s starting.” He glances down at his hands. Orange.

Blue. Pink. Purple. Red. Green. Gold.

One by one, the colors rise.

“No,” Seonghwa says, his voice suddenly flooded with resolve. “No. We’re not stopping.”

“But…” Wooyoung looks down at his right hip, where green has begun to spill from. “It’s starting here. I can’t…”

“We’re going to dance until we can’t anymore,” Seonghwa says firmly. “We’ll carry you if we have to.”

They have all begun to bleed. Hongjoong watches more white flutter from Seonghwa’s shoulder, pieces of him lost to the air. Seonghwa watches him back, in all hues of blue that disappear off his right hand. It’s horrifying, how the fingers that once caressed him simply disappear like that.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Seonghwa says, though he winces and his voice breaks. “We’re still here. We’re not gone yet. This night isn’t over.”

“He’s right,” San speaks up. He, too, winces as he glances down at what remains of his left hand as the violet glitter trickles from his open limb. “As long as we can still stand, we’re not stopping.”

Whereas Wooyoung’s bleeding started at his hip, Mingi’s started at his right foot. He’s already teetering on his left. “Guess I’m hopping,” he says, sending the group into a melancholic chorus of laughter.

And Jongho’s started right in the center. It’s an odd sensation, not painful, but still unpleasant, like the emptiness of all his days are finally being condensed. His body is finally being lifted. It feels lighter, almost. He is no longer hungry, as he has no stomach left to pain him.

Determined, they dance to the song as the day marches on.

_Live my life without_

_Coming up for air_

There’s a lull in the song and Mingi and Wooyoung have to stop. Red starts to fall from Mingi’s right thigh as the bleeding takes over his other foot. Wooyoung’s other hip has started to cave in, a forest of green leaking from the empty space.

_I want everyone_

_Racing down the hill_

Mingi is surprisingly light. Jongho is the only one left with two arms, though he only has enough strength to lift one of them. San bends down, the bleeding taking over his left side and creeping over his chest, and tells Wooyoung to grab on. Once Wooyoung’s arms are secured around his… what’s left of his shoulders, San spins them around, and Wooyoung laughs, that beautiful, beautiful sound.

Jongho replicates what he saw, glancing down at his bleeding belly, spewing gold around him as he spins. Like Saturn’s rings, his body is the center, and his color is what holds him.

And now, he is finally letting go.

All of them know it’s impossible to keep going forever like they wanted, but that doesn’t stop them from trying.

“Gold,” Wooyoung says lazily. San is panting as he finally collapses, letting Wooyoung onto the floor with him. He points a green finger. “It’s not yellow anymore. It’s gold. It’s always golden with you. You’re our golden youngest, Jongho.”

Jongho smiles, wondering if the tears falling from his eyes are gold too.

It’s useless. None of them can stand any longer. The bleeding has started up in multiple places now; Jongho’s neck is beginning to fade. The left side of Hongjoong’s face has begun to lift. All of their fingertips are disappearing or have disappeared. They no longer have the bodily capacity to stand.

So they lie down and wait.

But it’s not the sun they’re waiting for, for once.

“Are you guys scared?” Hongjoong asks.

Nobody answers, so Hongjoong answers for them.

“I’m fucking terrified. But you know… I’m glad we didn’t go down without a fight. And we’re all still here together. Even when… even when we disappear, we’ll still be together. Remember that when you’re gone, alright?”

Jongho looks at him. He is one-fourth of what he used to be.

“Guys…” It’s Seonghwa’s turn to speak. “It’s… really nice up here.”

“Up where?” San asks, craning his half-existent neck.

All of them turn to see the last bits of Seonghwa’s face, the last bits of _Seonghwa_ , fade to iridescent white dust.

“Seonghwa…” Wooyoung croaks.

“He’s right,” Hongjoong murmurs. "And... he really did bleed my favorite color."

They turn to him this time, the bright red lip stain on his right cheek the very last thing to go. The true last piece of Seonghwa, and the last piece of Hongjoong, flutters up into the air, this time, painted blue.

“It’s me now, huh?” Yunho says, sighing heavily. He turns to Mingi. “You know I love you.”

Mingi nods. “I know.”

“Good.” Yunho closes his eyes, his orange smile flashing before falling.

“Thank you guys,” Yeosang speaks. “I never had much. But you guys gave me everything I could ever ask for.”

Jongho barely catches the moment his final strand of hair crumbles to pink.

San has it in him to laugh. “So this is how we go.”

“Yeah, clearly,” Wooyoung retorts weakly.

San just chuckles again. “Ah, well… at least we’ll always be beautiful.”

And then, those last few beautiful purple fragments scatter.

“He really does love you a lot,” Wooyoung says.

“I know,” Mingi responds hoarsely. “I know everything he’s done to keep us afloat. And I know I’ll see him on the other side.”

The rest of them nod and they watch Mingi’s red drift into the air.

“Just you and me now,” Wooyoung says.

“I know.”

“Thank you for taking us here.”

Jongho manages to turn towards Wooyoung, a gleaming emerald.

“We were here together because of you. It’s all because of you. Our golden youngest.”

Jongho doesn’t know how it’s possible, but there are still tears in his eyes as the last of Wooyoung’s face disintegrates into a forest.

_This house is falling apart_

Jongho’s head comes full center. It’s the last of him, the part that has yet to disappear. And when it does, he will be golden; he will be the new filter, the new lens that covers the eyes of the youths like them. At least, that's what he hopes.

Because nobody deserves to sit through days of sordid sunshine waiting for dead dreams to come back to life.

“The golden youngest,” he whispers to himself.

Though there are no more lungs left, he draws in his final breath.

And the last of his gold seeps into the ground.

*

“What’s the problem again, sir?” an officer asks.

“A bunch of… a bunch of _delinquents_ broke into my house and left an atrocious mess!” screams a frantic man.

“Alright, alright.” The officer regards him with a simple wave of the hand as he steps into the house.

In the foyer, two beds are stacked atop each other haphazardly. The frames are broken, as is pretty much everything else in the house. Shattered plates, glass, frames… everything.

In the upstairs bathroom is a name in faded red. The officer can only make out _‘S-E---H-A’._

“Officer, please! Down here!”

The officer follows the panicked voice of the man back downstairs, to the living room.

Off to the side, there is a radio sitting on a table, antenna stretched out.

And in the middle of the floor is an array of eight colors, sparkling in the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> no, they don't literally bleed. their body parts cease to exist and they float up in glittery colors!  
> also pls don't try any of this at home, it's illegal  
> hope u enjoyed! kudos and comments are appreciated :D  
> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/galaxysangs)!


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